


Pocket Boyfriend

by spinmetal



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Cayde makes jammed printer noises when he's surprised or embarrassed, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fuck Canon, I Ship It, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Life hack: Chanting Bungo Bungo bring back our Caydo Caydo circumvents Forsaken, M/M, Other, Reader has eczema haha who's projecting surely not me, Reader-Insert, Romance, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Insert, and i don't regret it at all, cayde stutters when he's embarrassed or aroused, i wrote this instead of paying attention in class, or finger guns, or has to deal w more emotions than he can handle, without shooting or using humour as a deflection tactic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 12:55:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15534705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinmetal/pseuds/spinmetal
Summary: Set Post-Forsaken. Rumour has it if you chant "Bungo Bungo bring back Caydo Caydo" into a mirror three times at 3am your wish will come true. Well, your wish comes true alright – just not how you figured it would.





	Pocket Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to say a big thank you to instigators of this fic on the Destiny Tumblr Discord for giving me the inspiration to write this fic. You know who you are and I love and cherish you. I'd also like to thank everyone who read and liked Take It Slow; that was practice for me for this fic. Your support means the world to me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-Forsaken. Rumour has it if you chant "Bungo Bungo bring back my Caydo Caydo" your wish will come true. Well, your wish comes true alright – just not how you figured it would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, i'd like to thank all of yall on Destiny Tumblr Discord who instigated this fic and gave me the inspiration to even write it! yall know who you are and i love and cherish you. i'd also like to thank those who left kudos and comments on Take It Slow; that was my practice for Pocket Boyfriend. lastly, i'd like to thank the amazing Memelord Speaker for giving this chapter a title. you rock!!

Long day, long night. Getting yelled at for mistakes you try to not make is exhausting. Trying to keep yourself together in front of people, even more so, especially when all you really want to do is sit down and cry. It’s times like this you wish you had someone to hold you. You wish you weren’t alone. But you are and you have to play the hand you’ve been dealt. So you do. You hold yourself together through sheer force of will throughout the day, waiting for the moment you’ll be alone. Waiting for the opportunity to escape. Your patience pays off and _finally_ , you’re back in your room, sitting down to face what you’ve been anticipating and dreading, the latter more than the former.

Things start off well. You’re with Cayde and he’s out of the Tower. He’s happy, you’re happy, things go well. _Real_ well. Then you get separated. _This is it,_ you think, dread in the pit of your stomach. Everytime a Fallen shrieks, every turn you take, your heart jumps and you think this is it. _This is the moment._ But it isn't. It doesn’t come. You relax, just for a moment, thinking yourself silly to have been so worried. You smile, huff a laugh, enjoy shooting and knifing and supering bad guys.

Then it happens. And your heart breaks. You’re left struggling to understand where it all went wrong, trying to fight through tears and taunts, trying to hold on to hope that Cayde’s coming back because _surely_ he’s not dead. _Surely_ Bungie wouldn’t really kill their fandom mascot. _Surely_ the man you love more than anything will come back with a grin on his face and a witty one liner in his mouth, and the Ace of Spades flipping around his wrist. _Surely, surely, **surely**. _

He doesn’t. You stare on in shock and horror as the final cutscene rolls across the screen and you’re teleported back to the Tower. You stare, eyes glazed and hands trembling.

And you cry.

You cry and cry and _cry_ , and you _hurt_ so bad because you gave Cayde a piece of yourself and now he’s gone you feel an aching emptiness within you. You grab the figure on your desk, hold it to your forehead and beg _Bungo Bungo please bring back my Caydo Caydo_ because you won’t accept this -  you _can’t_ accept this. You _can’t_ go back to the Tower knowing you’ll see an empty spot where he was but hoping beyond all hope he’ll be there to greet you. You _can’t_ go on strikes and patrols, and hear his voice over the comms knowing he’s gone. You _can’t_ wield his gun knowing he’s never coming back to claim it but hoping that he miraculously appears. You _can’t_ accept Cayde’s death, and you feel childish and ridiculous and _shamed_ because this is a _fictional_ character you’ve gone to pieces over - you weren’t like this when your grades were at their worst or even when your father was in hospital and you feel - you know you’re a _terrible_ person for that. But this is Cayde 6, the person to whom you gave your _heart and soul_. The person you’ve connected with more deeply than anyone you’ve met. The person whose humour and warmth have helped you through every rough patch you’ve experienced since you first met him and you _can’t_. _**Accept**_. It hurts too much to bear. You repeat your mantra and soak your pillow with tears, your heart torn asunder by grief and damned unflinching, unfailing _hope_ Cayde will somehow return from the grave if you just pray and _beg_ and _**hope**_ hard enough. He won’t. It’s not enough, it never will be. But that won’t stop you from trying, no matter how much it hurts, or crying.

 _The Light in "real life" is expressed differently. In new year resolutions. In birthday wishes. In wishes on shooting stars. In the rules children make to keep themselves safe from monsters. In bloody mary summonings. In wishes made with all your heart and soul, with all your hurt and desperation and precious, fragile, tenacious_ hope _. Destiny is a story of hope. Of_ hoping _despite the odds, of_ hoping _you won't lose someone you love, of_ hoping _for a better tomorrow. Destiny has always been a story about hope and the Light hope manifests as. And hope lives in_ all _places, in_ all _things. You can block it out, even try to trap it, but hope_ will _find its way._

"Sleep tight Guardian. I've got your back. I'll _always_ have your back."

* * *

 

Getting out of bed today is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. You lie, curled up under the sheets, a hand curled around the McFarlane figure on your pillow. It's a little odd to see Cayde's arms around your thumb, as though he's giving you a hug, but you don't question it, grief and the ache in your heart fresh from yesterday. You take comfort from the sight instead, and let yourself interpret it as Cayde's way of wishing you a good morning and day. You can almost hear him telling you to _“Bring back some tales, Guardian”_. Your heart feels a little lighter and heavier at once and you sigh, eyes sliding shut as you try to find the strength to face the day. You don't feel any more prepared by the time your third alarm goes off but you risk being late for class if you linger so you sigh, press a kiss to Cayde's beautiful, _beautiful_ horn, and roll out of bed. You try to ignore the soreness in your throat and the redness of your nose and eyes. You feel like _shit_ and it shows. Grimacing, you get dressed, do your ablutions, and after one last lingering glance at Cayde lying on your pillow, you leave.

Uni is uni. Your favourite classes don't lift your spirits. You've managed to ward away concerned glances and questions with a sunny disposition that doesn't reach your aching heart. Between classes you muffle sobs in the bathroom. It's a hell of a day. You wonder when you'll reach rock bottom. You wonder if you'll have the strength to even _start_ to climb back up. There's no relief at getting back to your house. No relief as you step through the front door. Destiny was the single guaranteed method of de-stressing, but it no longer offers an escape. You sigh, a hand going to the doorknob of your room as you pull out your earphones -

Your eyes narrow, grip on the doorknob tightening. Something in your room is _buzzing_. No way is it a fly or beetle. Too loud. And moths don’t appear this time of the year. You listen intently, leaning in close to the door. Something- no, _someone_ is in your room, judging front the faint, muffled-

“Traveller’s googly eyeballs what the _hell’s_ going on!”

You freeze, eyes wide and heart pounding against your ribcage. You _hoped_ \- you hoped beyond all hope- that _voice_ \- that _stupid_ child-like swearing-

The door swings open without creaking and there, on your desk, lies Cayde McFarlane 6, illuminated by sunlight and vibrating so hard he can't get off his ass. You make a noise, part laugh part sob, and Cayde somehow manages to turn, stuttering excuses as you slowly lower yourself into the chair at your desk, a hand going to your mouth. This is impossible. This is _surreal_. These are tears rolling down your cheeks as you muffle your voice with your hands, shoulders shaking as you laugh so hard you can barely breathe.

Trying not to suffocate yourself laughing, you don't notice Cayde staring at you, his mouth agape and an indecipherable look in his eyes.

You look gorgeous when you smile, your eyes light up like you're using a golden gun. The years have slid off your face and in this moment Cayde thinks he might do anything to see that smile on your face, to keep it. He'd even give up the Ace of Spades. Okay, maybe not- glimmer he'd give up his glimm- yeah nah not that either but he'd definitely give up _stuff_ to see you smile. And hey, you know what; if he can't put a smile on your face with his _incredible_ charm and wit, he _deserves_ to lose _stuff_.

It takes a while, but after a cloud passes over the sun and Cayde stops vibrating, you finally calm down. Awkwardness creeps into the crevices of you mind and turns your tongue to lead. Conversation with the apparently not-so-fictional character you love becomes impossible and inadequacy and embarrassment fill your chest. Cayde's _here_. He's _alive_. _When? How? Did he see you come apart last night? Was he watching you sleep?_ Your mind’s abuzz with questions and your hands tremble from the answers it's providing.

“So, uh, a- about last night-” You panic. Your spine is stiff, expression closed off, jaw clenched and shaking hands curl into fists. _Oh shit, oh god, he saw you cry, he saw you cry, he knows you're an obsessed, cowardly crybaby-_

“Hey, you listening Guardian?”  

That gets your attention. Shame hits you like a punch to the gut because you're _not worthy_ \- you're _not_ worthy of that title and you don't realise you've said that out loud until Cayde commands your attention.  

“ _Guardian_ ,” Cayde says quietly, emphasis on the title. “Listen.”

  
Cayde didn't get the title Vanguard for his good looks or his charm or his incredible luck. He wandered around your room in the hours you were gone and saw coffee mug stains and empty junk food packets and papers strewn across a desk. A laundry basket overflowing with dirty clothes. A thin book filled with hastily scribbled dreams, something which hit a little close to home, as did the loss and loneliness in the pages of a worn journal. Maybe he shouldn't have been snooping but come on, what Hunter wouldn't scope out new territory. Should've kept this locked up tight where no Hunter can get to it- even if there's no such thing as a place which no Hunter can get to. Your room is a mess. He'd heard loud footsteps outside the door and froze just before someone barged in. The new face saw the mess - dry skin carpeting the floor, the unmade bed, the basket overflowing with laundry - and criticised it, call it laziness, lack of hygiene, lack of maturity.  
  
Maybe so.  
  
Cayde looks around now and sees loneliness and loss. He sees your trembling fists and your rigid posture and he sees you've used a chisel of harsh words and prejudice to sculpt yourself into the image others have placed on you.  
  
He turns words over in his mind, starts to speak, but loud footsteps come down the corridor and you tense, attention turning and fear flashing in your eyes moments before your room door bursts open and the intruder - same one from before, Cayde notes - yells at you; _grow up, clean your room, put your clothes for wash, you're an adult now, do you want to be treated like a baby_. He sees red in your glistening eyes and he sees your clenched fists,your controlled breaths, your racing pulse. catches you flinch at a slammed door and watches you wait until the sounds of an engine have faded before you avert your gaze, mortification plain on your face.  
  
_Mortify. Mortis. Killing of pride._  
  
Cayde sees you piece yourself together without a Ghost. Eloquence isn't his nature. He's terrible at comfort and reassurance. Humour rising like bile at the back of his throat and chokes it back down.  
  
"Hey." Your eyes glow with shame and hope. "Eyes up guardian."  
  
He can't hug you, not really. So he strokes your hair like Colonel's feathers and lets you cry.

* * *

  
“Where's the good shit when you need it,” you mutter under your breath, scrolling through your blog to find the spicy ramen recipe you'd saved.

Your eyes wander for a moment and a smile touches your lips at the sight of Cayde lounging on your clean desk. He'd helped you clean up- well, “helped” is pretty generous; he'd made some bets which you took, of course, and he now owes you a pretty pile of glimmer. Or rather, cold, hard cash that he'll have to convert the glimmer from, because of spite and also because you worked a hell lot faster than he'd expected. That's what he gets for thinking you're an amateur at cleaning your own room.

“Spicy ramen for dinner?” you ask casually when you finally find the recipe and you grin when he jumps up.

“Heck yes! I gotta get in on this. Whaddaya say I help you out a little- hey don't give me that look I helped you out with the cleaning- okay, so it was motivational help. Still counts as help!”

“ _Right_ ,” you drawl, skepticism bleeding from your voice as you offer him a ride to the kitchen.

“Just make sure you wash…” you glance at him, biting your cheek to suppress a snicker, “yourself before handling the food.”

“Yeah yeah, sure, let's do this!”

You pull out ingredients while Cayde takes a shower before delegating the meat preparation to him. Pork, because neither of you want to think of Colonel being eaten.

“I got this,” Cayde says, pulling out his knife on the meat and, surprisingly manages to cut it. Apparently he's not all plastic after all. “Wow, was not expecting that.”

“Neither was I,” you admit, starting on the soup. “Take a shower when you're done with the meat.”

“Yeah yeah, I got this,” he says, waving his knife around and you wonder how long it'll take before he decides to do something he absolutely does _not_ got.

The answer is five (5) minutes, because when Cayde's done with the meat and has taken another shower, he falls into the pot of soup in the three seconds you turn your back to the pot to grab the meat he'd cut. Needless to say, you weren't impressed, despite your amusement.

“ _Shower_.”

“If I rust, I'm blaming you.”

“You're plastic, Cayde. You're as water and soap friendly as they come.”

Somehow, dinner gets done. It takes all of your willpower to not make a makeshift child leash to put Cayde in because he _won’t stop climbing up the pot_ and you have to cut the vegetables at the stove with one and and use your other hand as a railing for Cayde but _somehow_ dinner gets done.

Dinner itself presents its own problems; there isn’t a Cayde sized bowl and trying to convince Cayde he can’t jump into his bowl of ramen to eat it results in-

“ _ **YEET!!**_ ”

“ _CAYDE_! Oh my _god_ .” You scrub your eyes, crying with exasperation and laughter, and rescue Cayde from the boiling soup, hissing as it drips all over your hand. At least Cayde’s looks a little guilty, even if he complains _relentlessly_ as you run cold water over your hand and him by extension.

“Do you _have_ to shower on my hand?”

“The sink,” Cayde says, vigorously scrubbing himself with dish soap, “has got _stuff_ in it. Really gross stuff.”

“Those are spring onion roots, Cayde.” Your voice is flat, your words ignored as Cayde talks over you.

“It’s like stepping into a Hive nest. It’ll come to life and drag me down the drain- Guardian you _gotta_ keep me away from it,” he pleads, somehow managing to make some very convincing puppy eyes.

“Oh my _god_ ,” you mutter, but there’s a smile on your face, and you hold him carefully without complaint even as he rinses and uses the dish cloth to towel off.

“Hey Guardian.” You look at him, curious and wary. Cayde lies down in your hand striking a pose that would be seductive if it hadn't been ruined by memes. _“Paint me like one of you City girls.”_

“I'm calling the police,” you say abruptly, pulling out your phone, dialling 911 on the calculator and pressing the equals key, fingers curling around Cayde so he doesn't fall as your shoulders shake with laughter. “Help police, I’m being harassed by a tiny plastic man with an idiot complex bigger than his body.”

“Hey! What idiot complex are you-”

“He keeps jumping into boiling water when it’s clearly boiling and yelling for rescue upon fucking up.”

“That was one- okay yeah two- okay _maybe_ I’d have fallen in if you hadn’t- _Stop bullying me!!_ ”

* * *

  
“So, fun day fun day.” Cayde’s gaze wanders around your room as he flips his knife over in his hand. You trust him to take care it doesn't stab you in the eye.

“Fun day,” you agree, head on your pillow and eyes sliding shut. You hear sheets rustling and feel the pillow dip as Cayde shifts around. Sleep quickly creeps into your mind and you manage to say one last thing before it completely takes over you.

“Night cayde. Love you.”

If Cayde had a heart, it would've stopped. Fortunately he doesn't, which saves him from an unglamorous death. Unfortunately he also - and he'll never admit this again, not even in the privacy of his mind - makes a rather loud noise akin to a jammed printer. _Cayde exe. has stopped working._ Good thing he's wearing his lucky pants; you don't wake up.  
  
But now he can't sleep.  
  
Was that “love you” a “love _you_ ”? Or a " _love_ you"? Or a " _love you_ "?  Was it a _love_ "love you" or just a "love you"- aand great. Now he's babbling in his own head.  He thinks about saying something. Saying anything. In a second his mind rifles through a trillion possibilities. Your face is soft, unguarded, buried into the pillow. There's a wet spot under the corner of your mouth from drool.  
  
He shuts his mouth.  
  
Cayde's kept up all night by what ifs raging in his mind like the blizzards on Titan and a fire he dares call hope smouldering in his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand there you have it!! leave a comment and a kudo if you liked it and stay tuned for more! alternatively, come pester me for excerpts on my tumblr at sonicscribbly. until next chapter folks *fingerguns*

**Author's Note:**

> aaand there you have it!! hope you enjoyed your first chapter with cayde and stay tuned for more *fingerguns*. alternatively, find me at sonicscribbly on tumblr to pester me for excerpts from the fic or to just yell at me about Cayde


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